


There and Back Again: A Half-Elf's Tale

by mollygrue13



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Major Original Character(s), My First Fanfic, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-30
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-12-16 16:30:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/864162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollygrue13/pseuds/mollygrue13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rowan has worked at The Prancing Pony since she was sixteen, and she is concerned that she won't be able to keep her secret much longer. One night a mysterious Ranger arrives who, although a total stranger, seems to know exactly who, and what, she is. Perhaps even more than she knows herself. My first fanfiction ever! Mostly OFC right now, but soon to include lots of Strider. Very AU/AR, whichever works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, readers! This is my very first fanfiction EVER, so please be gentle! Since I've never done this before, I don't know how long I'll stick with it, but I have had this story, or rather the big scenes from it, in my head for years. And I'm finally starting to write them down. There's a lot more coming, but I was too excited about posting for the first time to write a longer first chapter. Hopefully more will come very soon. Thanks! I own nothing LOTR, obviously. Also, this is clearly very very AU. Or AR. Or whatever.

The Prancing Pony was packed, filled with the travelers, merchants, and wanderers for whom Bree was an essential stopping point. For some it was their last, and they were celebrating with gusto, prepared to sleep for days in the inn above the tavern after their long journey followed by a long night of wine and Barliman’s Best ale. It was still fairly early in the evening, so the Pony had yet to transition from crowded to outright rowdy.

Rowan prepared herself for a long night of delivering pints and steaming spiced beef and taters, as well the occasional bit of unwelcome attention from her customers later in the night. She was the only female staffing The Prancing Pony, and after long weeks of traveling many of the men found her a fascinating sight. Having worked at the tavern for ten years, since she was sixteen, she was rarely bothered by their looks anymore — as long as they remained looks.

She only hoped Morton would not make her perform.

The kindhearted Barliman Butterbur, owner of The Prancing Pony, had journeyed south to live with family two years ago, and Rowan missed him every day. He would never have forced her into singing were he still in Bree. But then, she always thought, money changes people, and he had had no idea how much more money she could bring in. He had never known what she truly was.

Morton, on the other hand..... _stop_. Rowan shook her head, attempting to forget her worries, as she wiped a table clean and trotted back to the bar to collect the next bunch of pints.

After delivering a second round to the very large party of merchants who were celebrating beginning their journey on the East Road the next morning (you won’t be getting an early start, thought Rowan), she realized a man had been smoking in the corner for nearly half an hour without her attention. _A Ranger...of course I didn’t see him. He looks quite at home in that dark corner, almost as though he doesn’t want to be seen_. Rangers tended to be relatively easy customers, rarely drinking too much or behaving too roughly, but it was difficult not to feel on your guard around them. Rowan wondered if she had neglected to see him half-intentionally, her mind putting off going near someone she knew would make her feel uncertain and too...known. Rangers tended to look at everyone as if they could see people’s entire lives written on their faces. She knew they couldn’t, of course, but she didn’t like even the feeling that someone could know more about her than she let them.

Wiping spilt ale onto her apron, she trotted over to the man in the corner. This one looked like he had been in the wilderness for a fair time; his face was dirty and his dark hair hung limply down to his shoulders, but these signs of a Ranger’s life couldn’t keep Rowan from noticing that he was handsome. Impressively so, actually. However, he still had that stoic look that they all had, and she met his with a smile.

“Welcome, sir,” she exclaimed, a strand of red hair falling over her left eye. “What can I bring to you this evening?” Her only answer was the Ranger’s face changing from cooly observant to surprised, at least as surprised as a Ranger’s face could muster. His dark eyes looked at her blue ones with a strange intensity as his lips slightly parted in astonishment — Rowan thought he was gazing at her as if he had once known her, but never expected to see her again. Rangers always made her feel eerie, but this was new.

After standing with her hands pointlessly hanging at her sides for an uncomfortable amount of time, she repeated her question, if more uneasily. “Sir? Isn’t there anything I can bring to you?” The man seemed to remember where they were, although his odd stare remained. “Ah, yes, of course. Wine, please.”

“Yes, sir.” Rowan hurried away from the table, unsure about how she felt about the encounter. His manner was disconcerting, to be sure, but his look — it was not the way the other customers looked at her. She had the distinct feeling that if he could truly see into her, if he somehow knew her, she would not be afraid.


	2. Chapter 2

An hour later, The Prancing Pony was only slightly more full but twice as loud, and Rowan’s laughter sounded above the deep masculine racket surrounding her. 

“Come, Rowan, you should come with us one day. We’ll take you down The Green Way, toward the warm south. You waste your young face up here in the north.” Rowan smiled and gleefully shook her head. Alden and his companions came to the Pony every few months on their way to Rowan-never-knew-where. The world outside Bree was too vast for her to keep track of all the places that travelers mentioned; she imagined it as a vast compass with The Prancing Pony at the center, stretching out to points far past the horizon and just as untouchable. 

“And where would you take me, then? What would I see? Nothing too terrifying, I hope?” she teased Alden. 

“Oh, no, certainly not, my dear.” The older man flashed a not-so-secretive grin at his companions, and his brown eyes twinkled. “We’ll only take you down The Green Way a piece until the crossing at Tharbad...you have heard of Tharbad, no? A ruined city on the hills, with pieces of stone falling into the river and onto the road from once grand mansions. The only way to cross is to walk along these chunks of ruin over the rushing waters...you would not be concerned about ghosts, would you?” Alden stroked his short, slightly graying beard as though seriously envisioning leading Rowan through this land of perils. “After that, a week or so on The Old South Road will bring us to Fangorn Forest. No concerns about that, I take it?”

Laughing, Rowan replied, “Certainly not, good man!” Alden loved to scare her, or pretend to. “After serving fellows like you lot for ten years, not even your Fangorn could frighten me!” This caused a roar of laughter from the men, as she gathered their empty mugs and dishes with feigned cockiness and carried them on a tray toward the kitchens. She enjoyed joking with Alden and the others, but part of its bittersweet fun came from the knowledge that she would never leave Bree. She wondered about the wider world, but had so little actual information about it that she couldn’t do much more than wonder. Tales tall as mountains reached her ears every night working at the Pony, but she automatically dismissed them as half-truths and wild exaggerations. Bree was where her life had begun, and she had always assumed it was where her life would end. She did aspire, though, to making that life a little better than it was now. Perhaps she would run the Pony one day.

Still slightly grinning, Rowan carried the tray of mugs into the long, dark hallway that led around the back of the bar into the kitchens. The grin faded completely, however, when she glanced up to see Morton walking toward her. Recovering, she forced her face to look pleasant and mildly happy as she watched him tromping down the hall. A nasty smirk on a red face returned her gaze, and his gait betrayed both that he had already consumed a lot of ale and that he was looking forward to something. 

“Hello, Morton,” Rowan said as she tried to pass him quickly.

“Hello, dear.” His pudgy hand on her arm stopped her. Her own cramped hand reminded her how many mugs were on that tray, but her stomach told Rowan what Morton would say next. “I think it’s the right time for some music, don’t you?”

“I’m not singing tonight, Morton.” She tried to walk away, but his arm prevented her from trying too hard without losing the tray. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean that as a question. I meant to say that it’s time for some music, so put those away and then do what I pay you for.”

Now she turned to face him and steadied her stance. She had been preparing for this. “No, Morton. You pay me to take orders, serve the customers food and ale, and clean your tavern _and_ your inn from floor to ceiling, and I will only do what I am paid for. I am never going to play that trick on these people again just so you can have a few more coins in your pocket. Barliman wouldn’t have wanted it, and neither do I.” _A bit breathless at the end,_ Rowan thought, _but overall well put._ Morton hadn’t interrupted, which surprised her, and now she made sure to look right in his eyes and set her jaw. 

“Are you finished?” he slurred with apparent boredom. 

“I am.” 

The tray, the mugs, and the dishes came crashing to the ground as Morton grabbed both of her arms and pushed her against the wall. His face was almost touching her cheek, so that she could feel his hot, boozy breath on her ear and the slight brush of his stubble on her skin. 

“Now listen closely, you,” he whispered. “You’re going to do exactly what I want you to do, for one reason. Because I know what’s under here.” One hand released her left arm as the other compensated by holding her right more tightly. It firmly yanked back the thick lock of red hair she always kept so strongly pinned down to reveal the delicate point at the top of her ear.


End file.
